


i’d do whatever i could do

by sultrygoblin



Category: Watchmen (2009)
Genre: Damsels in Distress, F/M, First Dates, Love Triangles, Maybe sequel?, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrygoblin/pseuds/sultrygoblin
Summary: one shot - who do you need, who do you love, when you come undone
Relationships: Edward Blake/Reader, adrian veidt/reader, edward blake/reader/adrian veidt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	i’d do whatever i could do

**Author's Note:**

> again this is another one of those is people are interested i’d consider a sequel things

Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, from mid-morning till late afternoon you helped Mrs. Reynolds in her clothing shop, doing the older woman's paperwork, bills, and the like so you could focus on what you enjoyed; the customers. On Fridays you went to the bank to withdraw your allowance for the next week then took a taxi to the nice side of town to watch your niece and nephew so your brother and his third wife could go out for dinner and drinks, lots of drinks. That time you took to read a book or watched something on their ever-changing but always brand new television. Saturday to Monday was just for you. Time spent running errands, paying bills, and enjoying what little there was left to enjoy in the decaying city around you. Small books shops, a midnight market, your apartment a love letter to these experiences. Your life functioned on a plan and whether you admitted it or not, it's what continued to keep you sane.

Until he walked in. Well more so, swooped in with a witty one-liner and enough fists for everyone. The holiday season was fast approaching and everyone wanted to look their Sunday best, it meant more invoices, overtime payroll, you had offered to close up the store, if only to get it all done and not worry about it during your free time. The walk home was relatively short and as long as you kept to yourself generally uneventful. The holiday season seemed to bring out the worst in everyone. You'd have been happy to give them the small purse you carried, but that wasn't what the three boys, because that's exactly what they were boys, wanted from you. You yelped, they laughed, you fought, but 3 against 1 wasn't much of a fight. Then he showed up, the scent of cigar smoke the only thing announcing his arrival. He'd torn through them like tissue paper and left them a bloody pile at the end of the alley before finally turning to you. Looking at you like you owed him something, after all, he was the Comedian and he had just saved your life. You had no time for that kind of entitlement when your bed and a late-night call canceling tomorrow evening with your brother was just a block away. Buttoning your jacket once more best you could with its missing buttons over your torn blouse, you kicked off your remaining high heel, admitting that the other was broken beyond repair.

“Thank you,” you spoke, kindly and with honest graciousness before taking the first few steps towards the street carefully as to avoid wounding your feet.

“You gonna walk home like that?” you exhaled slowly, taking another careful step.

“It's not far,” it's not the first time.

You don't get much time to react, he's scooped you up in his arms as if you were some damsel in distress and not just any other woman who'd fallen prey to a selfish boys need to prove himself, “Then I'll take ya.”

“I'm fine, honestly,” but it didn't seem like much, feeling very much the size of a doll compared to his enormous frame.

He chuckled, “Stubborn, I like that,” standing on the sidewalk, waiting for your directions, “Which way?”

You pointed to the left, “End of the block, hang another left and it's right there,” the irate and put out tone of your voice clearly amusing him even more if his growing smirk was anything to go by.

“Shouldn't ya be bawling your eyes out? Worried about your modesty? Whatever the hell that is,” seemingly genuinely interested in why you seemed no worse for wear.

His much larger strides brought you to the end of the block quicker than expected, he took the left, “It's the blue door, there,” pointing to the brownstone just two doors down, “Nothing happened, there's nothing to worry about. Take a few days off, remember to bring my knife even if I don't think I'll be out late,” thankful when he set you on the ground at the base of the stairs.

He looked down at you, that smirk at full blast and seeming far more villainous than his heroic actions suggested, “You got a name?”

You could just go inside, there was no rule that you had to humor him, but there was something there, something dangerous, and as much as you wanted to ignore you baser instincts as you had managed to do for years after everything that had happened, that wasn't going to happen here, “No.”

“No, huh?”' clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth, “I'll see you around, dollface.”

“Don't,” you pointed at him, voice just as hard as you face, “Just,” you shook you head, sighing, “Just fucking don't,” turning and climbing the stairs, aware of his eyes burning into your back as you stepped through the gate taking the stepping stones to the side entrance that lead to you abode.

You had no intention of going to your brother's that evening, choosing instead to stop by the bank, take a quick trip to the grocer's, and spend the night in. Of course, your canceling had ended in a fight that might have consequences for every subsequent Friday. It still echoed in your mind. You had just finished changing after your uncomfortable exchange with the handsome devil who had saved your life, it wasn't that late and he seemed almost happy you had called. Then you canceled, trying to explain what had happened in the alley and just needing an extra day to deal with the stress of it.

Well, who were you hanging out with? As if it was your fault, he still didn't understand and never had it been so clear.

None of that was my fault, you bastard, you'd slammed the phone down and ignored his calls. Which you would continue to do for the rest of the day even if it meant unplugging your phone.

You tried not to focus on it, making it tomorrow's problem while you just tried to recoup comfortably. There were scrapes, bruises, a nice little gash across your forehead, but nothing that wouldn't heal with time and care, you had made sure you'd bought extra first aid supplies on your errands the next day. You had just finished putting away the groceries when your phone rang again.

“Goddammit!” apparently last night's introduction had poked a hole in your carefully designed image of self-control, “Hello?”

“I just want to talk.”

“One Friday, Arthur, that was all I asked-” “I know.” “you're so selfish sometimes-” “I know!” “Then why are you calling?”

“I'm sorry...”

The line crackled, “I'm still not watching them tonight.”

“They understand, just take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah alright,” hanging up the phone gently this time.

It wasn't exactly healthy but at least you were talking. You were interacting. Communicating. All the kinds of things your father had wanted before his passing and it took just that to start it all.

“No,” you exhaled, shaking your head, “Nope,” storming towards the record player, maxing it to its acceptable level and allowing Frank Sinatra to fill the air instead of our thoughts.

Stepping into your bedroom, you removed your blouse blouse and slacks, placing them carefully in the laundry, and pulling on a peach nightdress and white silken robe with half sleeves. Next came dinner. Nothing fancy, just a glass of white wine – from a bottle you intended to finish and maybe follow- and leftover tomato soup from the night before with sourdough toast. You'd just settled on the couch with a book, your glass of wine on the coffee table next to the newly opened second bottle when there was a knock at the door. Which itself was suspicious, not many people knew where you lived, and none of those people would be at your front door, at night. Stepping carefully, you gripped the baseball bat by Your door, peeking out the peephole.

None other than the masked man himself, the music felt like a mistake. you were here and he knew it, “Come on, dollface, people will start to talk.”

Rubbing you face, you tried to take a deep breath and instead almost growled low in you throat, “Fuck people,” hand touching the deadbolt but not quite prepared to twist it, you continued grip on the baseball bat reminding you why.

“Look. I want to come in. you want me to come in-”

you twisted the deadbolt, “I what now?” you asked incredulously, “I know who you are, I do read,” making no move to open the door, “The Comedian isn't the kind of guy to give a shit about pussy, that's what you say, the guys who look up to you,” rolling your eyes, “Go away.”

“You are a special kind of fucked up aren't ya?” laughing far too mirthfully when you hit the door with the end of the bat and stomped audibly away from the door.

{}

You hadn't expected anything to come from the exit of that shrieking shrew Thursday morning. She had thought that Mrs. Reynolds deserved abuse for not being able to achieve the impossible. You certainly hadn't expected the smartest man in the world to walk into the little tailor shop and ask for you by name, to both the fear and glee of your employer. You had drug yourself from the back office, preparing for some sort of tirade that only the rich and entitled were capable of.

“I would like to apologize on behalf of my _former_ assistant,” making sure to enunciate the word, showing how truly sorry he had been, “It really isn't that important of a meeting and I have plenty of other suits,” it might've sounded like a brag but it seemed much too sincere, as if the woman's outburst had been a sleight committed by himself.

“Some people don't do well with power,” smiling your best smile, even if it didn't quite meet your eyes, “Regardless of how minuscule that power is.”

You were surprised when he snickered, when he smiled, “She mentioned you had some choice words for her about that and the stick up her ass as well.”

The curse sounded strange coming from someone so proper, the smile reached your eyes, “Well, thankfully we sussed that out before she caused you any real problems.”

“Very,” he darted his eyes back to the office doorway where no doubt Miriam was eavesdropping, at least she had kept out of sight and that seemed to be what he was looking for, “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

“Wh-what?” you almost laughed, almost, “Why?”

This time he gave a real laugh, a deep sound that was somehow melodic, “I shouldn't have, I just wanted to apologize.”

You thought of home, empty. Maybe that man would appear on your porch again, maybe he wouldn't. Every day was the same and nothing was exciting. 

“Yes,” it was too quiet, you didn't like it, didn't like your sweaty palms or the nerves you suddenly had, “Yes, I'll have dinner with you.”

He smiled, it made your knees weak and you didn't quite know why, “Wonderful,” bowing his head slightly in your direction, “I'll send a car at closing.”

“Oh, I have to change,” gesturing to you in much too relaxed attire for wherever he would be taking you.

“I'm sure, Mrs. Reynolds,” his voice rising just a bit on the name, he had known the whole time, “Would be happy to let you off a little early,” you could hear the slightest squeak from the back room, “Until then”

{}

The nicest dress you owned was one Arthur's first wife had given you when she had been throwing them off the balcony or lighting them on fire. It was a little ill-fitting at the time but Miriam had worked her magic and now it fit you like a glove. A beautiful short, strappy grey dress with an ankle to wrist black lace overlay. It would have to do. You found your best heels, not imagining you would be forced to walk home this evening. The most basic of makeup, you didn't trust yourself for anything overly complicated, but scarlet lips with black liner was quick, easy, and did just what it was supposed to do. You forwent on jewelry, leaving in the small silver hoops you wore every day. Grabbing your purse and jacket, you made your way to the door. You looked back at the house, empty as always, it was enough to steel your nerves.

The walk back to the shop was quick, the brisk night air making you move quickly, and the clack of your heels on the cement an incessant beat that punctuated the growing wind. When you turned the corner a limousine was already in sight, the driver standing by the back door with a look of indifference that you couldn't fathom. He opened the door and you slid into the warm backseat almost too excitedly, the door closing finally blocked the wind. It's a welcoming heat that warms the cold that has settled itself in your bones. It comes with a nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach. Not the almost primal sensation that risked grabbing you in the last few days, this was the kind of nervous that a boy made a girl. What if he didn't like you? What if you had nothing to talk about? He was the upper crust of society after all. Worse yet, what if he knew? It had been a long time, but you were sure your father and mother hadn't let it go. Wasn't that what all the money you gave you for? Silence and indifference. The window finally rolls down.

“We're here, ma'am,” he climbed from the driver's side and moved around to the door, opening it quickly with one hand and offering the other to you.

You took it gently, climbing from the car in awe of the building in front you; Veidt Tower. You glanced at the driver, he gave you a comforting smile before gesturing at the main entrance with his eyes. You took his cue and took a step forward. Then another. And another. Straight through the massive door that had been opened for you into a beautiful lobby. It reminded you of the trip to Rome you had taken when you were young. Tall, ornate columns, rising high in an inner circle around a sprawling marble fountain and again between the tall windows that made up the outer wall. A young woman at the front desk pointed to the elevator and you decided it was better to just follow along rather than ask questions.

“Miss,' the elevator operator spoke politely when you stepped between the doors, you nodded and began the journey upwards. Each number seemed to crawl by, up and up you went to where the numbers stopped and abbreviations began. Up and up, till you were one light below the top; roof, “Enjoy your evening.”

The doors opened and you stepped out, glancing over your shoulder to watch them close before turning your eyes to what was before you. A long hallway of bright white marble, much like the fountain below. But every few feet gold rose from stone and climbed up and up till it arched over the hall.

“Is that you?” there's the lightest of accent in his voice as it echoes quietly down the hallway.

“Yes,” but it's barely a whisper, you shook your head trying to pull it together, “Yes,” finally your feet moved.

There was something almost pleasant about the way your heels clacked against the floor, so different from the cracking concrete in your neighborhood. Suddenly it flared open into a sunken living room. Sprawling couches covered in plum fabric around a large open fireplace, beautiful green plants and flowers of all colors impeccably spread about the room. He rose from the couch, so elegantly, his violet shirt unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Something savory and spicy finally hits your nostrils and your stomach growls. That might have been nerves.

“You look beautiful,” there was that lilt again and you couldn't help the cock of your brow, “I have found most Americans tend to trust an accent they know.”

You smiled, “Well, most Americans are idiots,” watching him laugh at the comment began to ease your nerves, “Are you making me dinner?”

He moved up the steps fast as lightning, “I don't like the fuss of going out,” helping you out of your jacket and hanging it on the coat rack, careful to never let even a fingertip graze your skin, “And imagined you would rather keep your face out of the papers. At least till after the first date. Old money and all.”

You bit you lip lightly, “Smartest man in the world. I imagine it didn't take very long to put together.”

He shook his head, “Unfortunately, no,” his hand moved to the small of your back but never truly touched it, the energy it seemed to produce moving you forward, “If it's any consolation, I always found your parents to be incredibly dull and rather unpleasant people.”

“It is indeed,” giving him a small laugh of your own, “Then you've heard the stories.”

You stepped into the kitchen, a huge thing with an island in the middle, the kind of kitchen you dreamed about, “I have. And instead of believing them, I read the police reports,” stepping around you to the stove, where pots boiled and something riddled with garlic baked in the oven, “Which tells me all I need to know, as do your expressions, the wordings of you parents stories, there's nothing you have to tell me,” throwing a smile over his shoulder, “Let me show you to the dining room.”

You sat beside each other at the giant mahogany table, happily enjoying curry and jasmine rice as you talked. You couldn't help your questions about the Watchmen and he answered what he could, alluding to what he couldn't. He asked you about living on your own, listening to ramblings about the books you'd read and hidden gem records you'd come to cultivate. You both had finished two bottles of wine before either looked at the time. 5 minutes till midnight. You set your empty glass on the table, smiling widely at him, your cheeks flushed from both alcohol and the evening itself.

“I supposed it's that time when a wonderful evening comes to an end all too soon,” climbing to his feet and offering you a hand.

You took it slowly, realizing it would be the first time you felt his flesh against yours. As you had expected but had been completely unprepared for, goosebumps erupted across your body, a shiver you could barely suppress and yet knew would be louder than a scream to him, shot down your spine.

“Unfortunately, I have work tomorrow,” rising slowly to your feet, “Though I’m almost sure Miriam will be giving me a little leeway on when I get there,” following as he leads you back through the living room.

“She’s quite important to you,” he noted, glancing at you as you made their way back down that hallway, “You're very lucky to have found her.”

you nodded, “I am. Sometimes, the world sees fit to give me a small victory.”

“And would this be one of those times?” those piercing green orbs probing your own gaze.

“Well,” trying to find any semblance of control and finding nothing to hold onto, “That's entirely up to you.”

You knew it was going to happen, the second his arm wrapped around your waist there was nothing else that could happen. But it still took you by surprise when it finally did. His lips pressed against yours took your breath away. This was not the hard demanding thing that could barely be called a kiss you'd become used to all those years ago. There were no bites that split lips or attempts at ownership here. It was soft, holding you and touching you as if you were the most delicate glass that would shatter at the wrong movement. Your palms pressed flat against his chest, feeling lean muscles beneath the soft fabric. They stood there, just like that, neither pressing forward or pulling away, content in the moment. He pulled away slowly, that studious gaze taking over his face.

“You should know tenderness,” running his knuckles down the curve of your cheek, “You deserve tenderness.”

Don't cry, “When can I see you again?” adept at the action of swallowing down tears, even if he could tell exactly what was happening, it still felt good not too.

“Saturday. I believe you said there was a flea market you visited. I'd be interested in seeing all the fuss,” his fingers dancing along the curve of your neck, “No doubt there will be cameras if I do.”

“I'm sure The Perkins' would love to see their denim and belt buckle stand on page 3,” tugging lightly on his collar with your thumb and curled forefinger, “Saturday. 10.”

“Until then,” placing a light peck on your lips and pressing the button for the elevator that now opened to an empty room, “Sweet dreams.”

{}

You had just settled yourself in bed, replaying the night once more as you snuggled down deeper into the mass of blankets, the quiet radio playing a perfect soundtrack to the looped memory of the kiss. The window jiggled, locked. The Comedian didn’t seem the kind of man to listen when you told him to go away, you had to ignore him, to push him away. Making him have to work for pussy was the easiest way to make him forget yours. But that was the future and this was now. Something in him called out to you. It felt ancient, more a partof your blood than any rational thought or actual feeling. There's a knock, the stern kind like when the cops come calling. Anything more and your fingers dig into your palms, knowing your resolve is only so string. The longer you could put that off, give him his own time to get bored and skip the potential stalking, the better this could all turn out.

“Dollface...”

The lock jiggled, harder, stretched to its limit. He could break it, you both know it. But he doesn't. Silence envelopes the room. He leaves you to stew on it, to wonder when he’ll come back. He'd felt it too. Whatever thing existed between the two of you hadn’t gone unnoticed or forgotten. Time might not be the factor you had hoped it might be. You hold onto the memory of Adrian, how he tastes, how he feels. Anything not to wonder the same about your dark savior. 


End file.
